Vijay’s father Meher was a man of shortcomings. He was a drunkard, never gave himself an option of education and had no such plans for his kid too. Woman as expected in the village catered to cattle, they had no say in the way of running a family. Meher used to wake up early, have a glass of tea, and go to the lake outside the village to do his morning chores. The lake was a bathing place for cattle of the village and the great amount of keekars and bushes around the lake made it an ideal place for shitting purposes. The place around the lake was divided into sections. The Brahmins had a different sect reserved for them, the Jats (who were also the zamindars over here) had a huge area cordoned off to themselves and the others had the rest. From here he used to go to sweep the streets. He was supposed to clean the shits coming out houses but never allowed to enter the houses. When he used to be thirsty, he was supposed to shout for water, outside the house he was sweeping. A head to toe covered woman or a man donned in white kurta pajama used to come out with a jug of water and pour water from a height of three to four feet into a separate glass kept reserved for him. There were days when due to absence of milk at home, tea was served to him in a similar manner. He used to return home at noon time to have a bath followed by lunch. He used to sleep in the afternoon and by the time Sun used to set Meher used to pour his third glass of drinks.
Signs of being different were visible from Vijay’s birthday. One of the rarest things worth observing was- he never cried; even the shortage of milk at home did not make him shout and whimper. His mother used to tell the village folks that the last time she saw him cry was when he came out of my womb. Village ladies used to whisper in soft breaths, “Oh, God … is he mentally challenged?” His mother used to break up such remarks with a horrible fight. She used to feed him once every morning and he never used to ask again. One morning when Vijay was six months old and his mother did not get up from the meshed cot, he fell down his cot, crawled to the next house across the street paved with kiln bricks and started crying. The neighbor cobbler lady on seeing him at the gates came out running to his house to find his mother pale white. She had died in the silence of the night.
Poor Vijay was motherless ever since. The neighbor lady on request from Meher took up the task of feeding him daily. Vijay started to walk when he was eight months old; by the end of nine months he used to walk across the paved street seeking for food.
Signs of being different were visible from Vijay’s birthday. One of the rarest things worth observing was- he never cried; even the shortage of milk at home did not make him shout and whimper. His mother used to tell the village folks that the last time she saw him cry was when he came out of my womb. Village ladies used to whisper in soft breaths, “Oh, God … is he mentally challenged?” His mother used to break up such remarks with a horrible fight. She used to feed him once every morning and he never used to ask again. One morning when Vijay was six months old and his mother did not get up from the meshed cot, he fell down his cot, crawled to the next house across the street paved with kiln bricks and started crying. The neighbor cobbler lady on seeing him at the gates came out running to his house to find his mother pale white. She had died in the silence of the night.
Poor Vijay was motherless ever since. The neighbor lady on request from Meher took up the task of feeding him daily. Vijay started to walk when he was eight months old; by the end of nine months he used to walk across the paved street seeking for food.
Vijay had an olive radiating skin in contrast to dull dark complexion of Meher. His eyes were akin to his mothers, light brown. He had already reached the age of two and had not spoken a single word. Children by the age of nine to ten months start saying their first word- Maa. A worried Meher had consulted umpteen hakims and healers only to find a non-assuring answer. All of them used to say, “he is probably a slow learner. He will speak in due time.” On a morning, when Meher was out for his duties the village milkman came to their house to find two year old Vijay fidgeting with the knife. He hurried to remove the knife from his hands and was dumbfounded to find an oddly crafted flute lying by his side. Probably he had learned to use the knife by looking at the cobbler family. The milkman thought of the name “Murlidhar” crossing his mind, and to his amazement Vijay picked up the flute and offered it to the milkman speaking his first word, “moorliii”.
The only class which can compete with women in delivering news is the Milkman; and the best way to know if some news has been spread properly is to go for a haircut. The barber has access to all the gossips circulating the community. He knows who is having an affair with whom, he knows who is getting married and he also knows which couples in the community are on non-speaking terms. Sooner than expected, Vijay became a common topic on the tongue of the barber.
By the time Vijay reached five years age he used to sit outside the village temple and play his flute. The same flute which he had crafted when he was two years old. There were significant changes in the flute since then. He had removed the wood bristles that hang out of improperly carved wood; constant friction by wiping it with a piece of cloth made it look decent and gave it a polished look. But the most astounding thing to happen was when he played it for the first time. The temple’s priest, who was offering prayers to Ram and Sita idols, was taken to a hallucinating world. He forgot his prayer and as if walking in a dream came and sat beside Vijay. For an hour Vijay played the flute non-stop and the priest listened to it, as if it was Vijay who was offering the Morning Prayer to the Gods of the temple.
The only class which can compete with women in delivering news is the Milkman; and the best way to know if some news has been spread properly is to go for a haircut. The barber has access to all the gossips circulating the community. He knows who is having an affair with whom, he knows who is getting married and he also knows which couples in the community are on non-speaking terms. Sooner than expected, Vijay became a common topic on the tongue of the barber.
By the time Vijay reached five years age he used to sit outside the village temple and play his flute. The same flute which he had crafted when he was two years old. There were significant changes in the flute since then. He had removed the wood bristles that hang out of improperly carved wood; constant friction by wiping it with a piece of cloth made it look decent and gave it a polished look. But the most astounding thing to happen was when he played it for the first time. The temple’s priest, who was offering prayers to Ram and Sita idols, was taken to a hallucinating world. He forgot his prayer and as if walking in a dream came and sat beside Vijay. For an hour Vijay played the flute non-stop and the priest listened to it, as if it was Vijay who was offering the Morning Prayer to the Gods of the temple.
The lower caste of the village was allowed to enter the temple only on Sundays. Vijay never entered the temple; he hated his people not being allowed into the temple. Everyday he simply sat at the white marble stairs and played his flute. The mellifluous tune that emanated from his lips landed directly on the heart. It mesmerized the brains and the poor brains used to ask his tunes what to do next and his tunes used to order them not to stop breathing. The music emanating was serene and peaceful. During rainy seasons when there used to be rains, torrential rain as if it would drown the whole of village; when water level of the lake used to come up to alarming levels raising concerns of crops getting flooded, Vijay used to play his flute and a melancholy used to sweep the whole village. His melody used to describe a land where there is no hope, where only destitute and unhappiness breeds. His music used to bring the whole of village to a point where their hearts used to give a flutter and seek repentance of their life long sins. Hardly any men, women and children were left who weren’t dragged on the verge of tears. Calmly the rains used to deplete and the trance generated by him used to subside.
However how long could all this continue? How long could the upper caste bear a sweeper’s son in the limelight? It had to stop and eventually it will stop. Everything that has been created will be destroyed, worth observing will be- destroyed on its own accord or untimely brought to destruction. It is said three witches weave the fabric of fate, and whenever there are three women involved things cannot be smooth and perfect!
However how long could all this continue? How long could the upper caste bear a sweeper’s son in the limelight? It had to stop and eventually it will stop. Everything that has been created will be destroyed, worth observing will be- destroyed on its own accord or untimely brought to destruction. It is said three witches weave the fabric of fate, and whenever there are three women involved things cannot be smooth and perfect!
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